Stone
by Tacens
Summary: The origin of Cullen's stutter. Cullen's POV of Solona Amell's life in the Circle Tower. Companion piece to "The Maker's Gifts".


**Stone**

Squire Cullen stands in the shadows of the Tower's library, struggling to maintain his stance. It is some ungodly hour of the night and he has been assigned his very first watch. And... there is apparently not a soul about to be watched.

Cullen arrived at the Tower barely a fortnight ago - a gangly youth of 16 summers. The sixth son of a farmer, there was really nowhere else for him beyond the Chantry. There, he studied the words of Andraste, trained in combat and finally took his squire's oath. Now, he is assigned to the most prestigious and dangerous post in all the Thedas: guarding the Circle Tower of Ferelden.

It should be a great honour. It should leave him aglow with pride of service in the name of Holy Andraste. Yet, right now in this library, it is mostly boring. It is also cold. And drafty. And there is a drip from the ceiling he cannot manage to avoid.

Stony Vigilance, they tell him, is key. They say mages can move stone, mimic it, but they cannot bend it - cannot mould it to their will. Stone is too strong for their godless magics. Stone will outlast them. Only stone and the Maker are eternal. Cullen fights the urge to scratch undignifiedly at his nose. Being stone is easier said than done.

He looks up and gives a nod to Ser Daevin, his mentor for the watch. The older templar has arrived to check in on the new squire. The Tower library is as tame a place as could be, especially at this hour.

"Go around to the far corner for a while," Daevin orders, subtly trying to move the boy closer to the library's largest fireplace.

Cullen nods and sets off with a sigh of relief. As he rounds a blind corner, he nearly trips over a hunched figure sitting among a stack of books. He tries to step out of his stumble with grace and dignity, but the heavy chain of his armour is unforgiving, clinking and jangling about in its own private symphony.

When at last he settles, Cullen turns to glower at the mage sitting in such an inconvenient spot. He wants to shout at them - order them to take their books and move somewhere where they won't break a sentry's neck. Instead, he falls speechless as he beholds the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. She wears the robes of a Senior Apprentice, but looks much too young to do so - she is at most his own age. Her hair is the deep brown of rich soil, while her eyes are the grey of early dawn. Her skin is pale like most apprentices - probably not having seen true sunlight in many years - but around her right eye weaves a pale blue pattern unlike anything he has ever seen before. She stirs something within Cullen that he cannot understand.

She looks up for a moment. With a sniff and cocked brow she turns back to her books. "You're new," she mutters.

There is something so very strange about her; something he cannot quite name. She is almost ... _otherworldly_. Letting the tendrils of the Fade grasp at him, Cullen feels immense power radiating from the girl. He has felt magic like this in only a few mages, and all were thrice her age. Cullen chokes. Is she possessed? A demon - a _Desire_ demon, no doubt. The Chantsays nothing about demons having marked faces, but surely the curling blue lines about her eye seem to lure him in...

Cullen panics. Ser Daevin has wandered on, and Cullen is alone. Alone with a demon.

_No. Don't panic_, he orders himself.

He stares harder at the girl. She certainly doesn't _look_ like a demon. She simply ignores him, twisting the tips of her hair and biting unconsciously at her lip. Her soft pink lips. Her round, full pink lips. Her - Cullen shakes himself. Yes, a Desire demon. Definitely.

Silently, Cullen summons the Shield of Clarity against demons, followed by St. Artenia's Blessing of Strength. His preparations shatter when the girl laughs.

"Did you?" she cackles, "Did you really just...?" She starts laughing madly to herself.

Cullen is lost for words. She laughs at him? At _him?_ Doesn't the demon know he's a Templar of the Chantry? That his devotion to Andraste will see her evil purged from the Maker's Thedas?

"Daevin!" she calls out. "Daevin, where are you hiding?"

Eventually the senior templar appears from behind a shelf looking vaguely put-upon. "What now, Solona?" he sighs.

She flicks a vague wrist towards Cullen. "Little Mouse here thinks I'm possessed."

Cullen blanches as Daevin rolls his eyes. The girl had certainly seemed odd ... _oddish_ anyways.

The older templar sighs and shakes his head. "She's not a demon, Cullen - just a pest most days. What did she do now?"

"I... she..." Cullen stammers. It all made so much more sense a few moments ago when he was alone and she was ... _breathtaking_.

"Look, I have to go up top for a bit. She's the only one left in the library, so you'll be fine on your own for a while. Just stay here and don't let her get into trouble." Ser Daevin looks down at the boy with gentle eyes, and places a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. "Don't worry about it lad, for the first few months, every shadow looks like a demon in the Tower."

"Solona," Daevin gives the girl a stern but affectionate stare, "You know the rules. Try to follow them for once. We're still cleaning up the mess from your last little game."

The girl only shrugs.

And with that, Ser Daevin departs, leaving Cullen alone with the mage.

_Stony vigilance, _Cullen chants to himself. He tries not to stare at her, even as his traitor eyes wander back to her pink lips. _Stony vigilance. Maker, give me stony vigilance._

She catches his eye and then his deep blush.

Her laughter rings through the stone walls like a bell. "My, my," the girl ponders aloud. "Certainly is warm in here tonight, isn't it?"

_Stony vigilance._ He ignores her and begins to recite the Chant of Light, a slight shiver rising up his spine. Absentmindedly, he takes off his gauntlets and rubs his cold hands together.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
>I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.<em>

Cullen's gaze flickers once more to the girl. She has apparently forgotten him and returned to her reading.

_I shall endure.  
>What you have created, no one can tear asunder.<em>

A small sigh leaves white fog trailing from his lips. Cullen shivers again. How can it be so cold here with a fire only a few yards away? Again, he looks at the girl. She seems to not notice the icy chill, reading intently - very, very intently - at her book. In fact, her face is practically buried within its yellowed pages.

_Though all about me is shadow,  
>Yet shall the Maker be my guide.<em>

A slight flicker on his cheek causes Cullen to jump. He pats frantically at his face, only to find a slight wet spot beside his nose. His brows arch in confusion until at last he looks up and gasps. The stone ceiling has been lost in a mass of grey clouds. Falling gently from them is a soft fluff of cotton white.

It's snowing. At First Bell, in the middle of the Tower library, it is snowing.

The girl tries to hide her laugh behind a cough.

"St-st-stop this," Cullen orders, hoping his voice does not crack.

The girl taps at her chin for a moment, seeming to consider his words. "No," she replies at last.

Cullen blanches. A full templar would be able to dispel this magic in an instant ... but Cullen is only a squire and can do little more than cleanse the dirt from his own hands.

The mage giggles to herself as she picks up a new book. Somehow the snow manages to avoid a tight circle about her, and judging by the even colour of her cheeks, her enchantment has shielded her from the cold.

The little..._pest_.

The snow becomes denser with each moment, falling now in heavy sheets. Cullen struggles to plot a course of action as the snow piles up past his ankles. Chantry laws say that he cannot touch her unless she is possessed by a demon, is using Blood Magic or has openly attacked him. This does not seem like an open attack. Maybe he should run for help - find Daevin in the Upper Tower or rouse some other senior templar from his sleep ... But what would he say? "The mage snowed on me?"

No. He will not play her little games.

Thus, Cullen stands at attention in the growing mound of snow. With few remaining shreds of dignity, he tries his best not to shiver as he again recites the Chant of Light.

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  
>For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light<br>And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

And so the hour passes with Cullen praying for Daevin's return, the girl completely ignoring him, and the thick snow falling on. After far too long, the girl stands and yawns with a skyward stretch. She smirks at Cullen's blue cheeks and chattering teeth. She walks with slow, swaying strides towards the templar; her steps casually melting footprints into the snow.

When she stands just before him, the girl flashes Cullen a nymph's smile. "Goodnight Mousey. See you tomorrow." And turns away.

As she walks past him, Cullen at last realizes what is so strange.

She smells like sunshine.

* * *

><p>A year passes. Cullen grows. The Tower moans.<p>

The young squire has grown used to the monotony of life within the Circle Tower. Every day he rises, bathes, spends several hours in contemplative prayer, spends several more hours training, and then finally wastes away the rest of the day on guard duty. It is dull to say the least.

And say the least, Cullen does. He tries so very hard to be the quiet, contemplative, pious and devote squire that the Chantry demands. He does not chatter with the other young squires. He does not complain about duties. He abstains from joining in the whispered rumours during morning prayers. In fact, days often pass without a single utterance falling from Cullen's lips.

His new mentors praise Cullen's devotion, which only helps him to hide the true origin of his silence; Cullen has developed a stammer - a stutter that appears and disappears so quickly it may as well be magic. It is, in fact, a curse. Cast by _her._ The witch in the library. The horrible nuisance: Apprentice Amell.

Much too powerful and much too young, the Circle does not seem to know what to do about the Apprentice Solona Amell. She completed the standard classroom type curriculum years ago, and would have been Harrowed at Age 9 had it not broken most of the Circle's own rules.

Too young to be Harrowed or made Tranquil, Amell has been sentenced to float in Limbo for the next five years. For now, the girl wallows in the Arch Mage's favour. He spoils her like his own daughter and has more or less given her the run of the Tower. Short of burning the building to the ground or, you know, summoning a demon, Amell can do as she likes, when she likes. It is only a matter of time before she will have devoured every book and mastered every spell in the library. It was generally agreed all the Templars and more than a few of the Senior Enchanters that teaching her to read was a horrible mistake.

Her favourite hobby seems to be making Cullen's watch shifts as miserable as possible. Following their first encounter in the library, Cullen quickly learned a basic magic ward. The next evening had been blissful as the snow fell around, but not quite upon, him. His stony facade had cracked as he dared to smirk at the girl's scowl. Oh yes, Andraste had brought him victory that night.

Of course, the victory was short-lived; his next midnight watch found the library filled with spinning dust storms. Apprentice Amell had watched with feigned disinterested as the clouds of swirling dirt tickled his nose and burned his eyes. And so Cullen had learned a new ward and claimed victory once more ... until the girl countered with a new spell.

Back and forth they went. Cullen endured and overcame a thousand new torments. He would be loathed to admit it, but the girl made him stronger. He quickly outpaced any of his fellow squires. Indeed Greagoir himself had taken to mentoring him. The older Templars even joked that he could be Knight-Commander himself, someday...

Unfortunately, the girl also grew stronger. Some nights Cullen stood victorious; others, he suffered her games in humility. And yet, for all his pains, Cullen could not help but find himself volunteering for the midnight watch more often than not.

Tonight is a night much like any other night. Most of the Tower's mages have wandered off to bed - alone and otherwise - several hours ago. The Templars too have answered Sleep's call, leaving only a handful of their brothers to watch the silent corridors. Torches have been dimmed and fires doused. Yet, in the orange glow of the library's hearth, Cullen finds something missing. Rather, Cullen finds _someone_ missing.

He wanders through the stacks' long shadows, convincing himself that he is not, in fact, searching for her. No, he is simply being a diligent guard - checking each and every dusty corner for misdeeds. Yet he finds no one; only a handful of tiny brown mice scurry through the long shadows.

As Second Bell and the end of his watch approaches, Cullen is anxious. She should have been here. She is _always_ here. Of course he doesn't _miss_ her. That would be ridiculous. Who would miss such a horrible pest? No, Cullen simply worries that she if off wreaking havoc elsewhere. Yes. That's it. Certainly.

He waits an extras hour, just to be certain.

Finally, Cullen's replacement wanders past. He lies to the other fresh-faced squire - claims he lost track of the time before slipping off to check the darker corridors.

An hour later, Cullen is certain he has checked every last nook and cranny in the blasted Tower. He gives up the pretense of not actively searching for Amell. He even sneaks quietly into the Apprentice Dormitory to find her bed cold and empty. Pacing now down a half-forgotten corridor of storage rooms, he wonders what he should do. A missing mage was a very serious matter. Had she fled the Tower? Escaped into the dark night? Should he alert the Knight-Commander? Or perhaps she was just playing with Cullen. Perhaps this was a new game for her - hiding somewhere and making him look the fool when he sounded the alarm.

He is about to turn back, do one last round before going to Greagoir, when an echoing whisper catches his attention as it skitters past him and down the corridors. And then a thud. A clatter. A rip. A scream.

Cullen takes off running down the hall, struggling against the weight of his own armor. He comes to a sharp corner and scrambles to a halt at the sight that awaits him beyond it.

Far down the dead-end of the corridor, two Templars hold a struggling Apprentice Amell. The air is thick with magic wards. Cullen can find no trace of the Veil here; the girl has no chance of casting a spell. At first he fears she has succumbed to the will of demons. For a half a heartbeat, he mourns the loss of her. But then, he looks again. The Templars are not just subduing her, they are groping at her. Her robes are torn at the collar. An angry red handprint shines upon her cheek. Bile rises into Cullen's throat as one of the Templars leans down to sweeps his tongue up the side of the girl's face. He can hear the men laugh.

Cullen has heard the stories - mages' whispered warning of Templars that prey upon pretty young Apprentices. He had thought it the fear-mongering of Separatists, but now, there can be no denying it.

It takes a moment for Cullen recognize the two Templars. He has spoken with them maybe a dozen times in his year at the Tower. They are a gruff pair, with several years and a couple stone upon him. While Cullen's studiousness has landed him in Greagoir's graces, these two are seem happy to languish forgotten in mediocrity. Holding Amell's arms behind her is Novice Stephos. Before her, the Novice Ervik reaches for the hem her robes. They have shed their armor, leaving it and their swords piled upon the floor; they still manage to make the girl look tiny and fragile between them.

Cullen watches, too stunned to act. The girl manages to land a solid kick to Ervik's shins. With a growl, Ervik cuffs her hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. She staggers, dazed for a moment, before crumbling to her knees. Stephos follows her down, one hand pawing at her breasts, the other trailing up her thighs.

Her vision clears as she spots Cullen frozen the distance. She cries out wordlessly to him.

Ervik starts around, unblocking Cullen's view of the apprentice. She is crying.

Her tears galvanize him as Cullen draws his sword. "Leave her alone."

The Novices glance to one another. There is a long moment where no one moves. No one breathes.

It is Ervik the breaks the silence. "Look - it's Cullen, right?" he starts. "Just walk away, Cullen."

When the squire doesn't move, Ervik continues. "Aren't you sick of them all, Cullen? Every day, they waltz around the Tower like they're the Maker's gift to the Thedas. " Ervik tries to reason with him.

The Novice's voice drops low. "But there's demons in their eyes."

Cullen stands his ground, silent.

"So we have some fun - put them back in their place. If they try to talk, we cut them down - say they were possessed.' He steps forward, hands up. "Help us out and you can have a turn."

Apprentice Amell takes the distraction as an opportunity for escape. She shrugs out of Stephos' grip and makes it all of three frantic steps between he grabs her again from behind. With both his arms wrapped firmly about her torso, she is trapped once more in his embrace.

Ervik turns back and grabs the girl's chin. "And her," he begins. "She's the worst of them. Malifca in the waiting." He wrenches her head up to meet his gaze. "Who knows? Maybe if we put the bitch in her place now, we won't have to put her down later." He turns back towards Cullen. "So, what do you say, Cullen?"

Cullen risks a glance back to the Apprentice. The girl shakes, one hand holding her torn collar. "Please," she begs him.

"Let her go," Cullen warns again.

Stephos shifts from one foot to the other, the girl still in his grasp. "I don't like this," he mutters to Ervik. "Just run 'em through - say he's possessed and she's a blood mage."

"Now, now," Ervik says, voice calm and controlling. "There's no need for that." He turns away from Cullen, as if speaking to Stephos. "We're all brothers here."

With a flash, Ervik pulls a dagger from within his sleeve, and spins around striking at Cullen. Cullen dodges too late; Ervik's blade stings across his cheek, opening a long wound in its wake. As Cullen stumbles back, hand pressed against the weeping gash, Ervik dives for his sword and wrenches it from its sheath.

Cullen shakes off the sting, bringing both hands back to hold his sword. Blood drips warm down cheek, but after a moment, Cullen forgets about this injury. Adrenaline sings in his blood as he readies himself for the next blow; Ervik approaches him, blade held high.

Again, Ervik strikes first - a few quick blows to test Cullen's training. Although the Novice has several years upon him, Cullen's months of guidance under Greagoir show. Cullen blocks the blows one by one with ease. Ervik charges; Cullen dodges. Ervik strikes; Cullen parries. This is his first true fight, but Cullen finds no time to be nervous.

Cullen whispers a prayer for strength and guidance to the Maker. He asks the divine Lady Andraste to guide his blade, swift and true. For a while, as he blocks blow after blow, he thinks perhaps his piety has paid off. Yet, then a loud clatter echoes as he locks blades with Ervik. The taller man leans into the lock, bearing his weight down upon Cullen. Cullen's hold begins to falter. He feet search for purchase, but they too give out. Cullen tips to his knees, barely holding the block.

Ervik grins down at him. "You should have just walked away," he taunts.

A rage boils in Cullen like he has never known before. With renewed strength, he breaks the lock, pushing Ervik's blade off to the side. Before the Novice can recover, Cullen slams hard with his shoulder into the other man's unarmored chest. Ervik stumbles back; only the wall behind him saving him from a fall.

With a final roar, Ervik charges madly back at Cullen. Cullen ducks easily beneath a swing. He feels the moment slow as he spins and raises his own weapon. He guides the sword towards the side of Ervik's head. It feels like hours as the blade slices painfully, achingly, slowly through the air. He meets Ervik's gaze. It's too late for the Novice to stop him.

A hair before the sword contacts, Cullen turns the blade and slows it's swing so it smacks the other man across the temple with its broadside. There is sickening thwack as it makes contact. Ervik staggers for a moment. The force of the blow splits his skin, and blood trails slowly down his jaw. He drops his blade before falling limp upon the ground - unconscious, but still breathing.

Without pause, Cullen turns towards Stephos who still clutches the girl hard against his chest. The two Templars glance at Stephos' sword, leaning far out of reach against the wall. There is no way the Novice can reach it with both Cullen and the girl in the way, and they both know it.

"Go," Cullen barks.

Stephos hesitates for a moment. His gaze flickers one last time to his sword, then back to Cullen. With a defeated cry, he shoves the girl hard forwards, sending her tumbling onto her hands and knees. He takes off in a quick retreat down the hall and out of sight.

Cullen stands with his sword ready for a few extra moments. Only when it is obvious that Stephos will not return does he draw it into its sheath.

His manages to find Ervik's pulse before kicking the fallen man's sword far away from his reach.

Cullen turns to the girl. She cowers upon the floor, back pressed tight against the stone wall. With wild, frightened eyes she stares up at him.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

It takes a moment, but then she nods silently back.

Cullen sighs as he sinks down against the wall beside her. Exhaustion suddenly pulls at him. He is usually long abed at this hour. His frantic search and the ensuing fight has drained him.

He turns back to the look again at the girl. She furls her brows before reaching out to place a gentle hand against his cheek. Cullen gives a quiet hiss at the sting as she touches his open wound, but he doesn't stop her.

Her magic pours into his wound, knitting it back together. Cullen holds his breath. It feels like a cool fire dancing across his flesh. It flows down into his spine and washes through his entire body. In his training, Cullen has been subjected to small hexes and curses. He and the other squires have been taught a dozen different ways cast a spell off themselves, but this feels nothing like any magic he's felt before, and the last thing he wants is for it to end. It's amazing. Beautiful. He suddenly wants nothing more than to fall into a great pool of this magic and never emerge.

There are strict rules about the use of magic directly on Templars; she could be punished for this - not that he would ever tell. But she doesn't stop until the cut has vanished and his skin is unblemished once more. Not knowing why, he raises his own hand to rest over hers upon his cheek. Their eyes lock. "It's okay now," he whispers to her.

The moment breaks as the girl's lips begin to tremor and tears form at the corner of her eyes. Whatever emotions she had been holding in all crash forth at once. Before he can stop her, the girl surges forward, wrapping her arms around Cullen, holding him close. She sobs into the cold, hard armor against his chest. Her fingers grasp tight around the back of his neck, drawing him closer. She trembles in his arms.

For the first time in his life, Cullen feels like a knight.

As her tears drip down the grey iron of his armor, threatening rust and ruin, Cullen knows what he must do. Soon, he will depart to report the incident to the Watch Captain and then to Greagoir himself. Soon. He will make sure that Apprentice Amell is not punished for any of this. Soon.

He dares to place a bare hand upon the girl's shoulder. Soon. He'll go soon. In just another moment. Soon.

* * *

><p>The days that follow are confusing.<p>

Greagoir calls the incident a "Templar Matter"; he declines to report it to the First Enchanter. Whispers spread that Ervik and Stephos were transferred, and Cullen is ordered to say nothing more of it. It feels wrong, but he is a loyal Templar, and does as his Knight-Commander orders.

Apprentice Amell, out of fear or shame or something more, remains silent.

Cullen is not surprised when his next midnight watch shows no sign of the girl. Nor the next. Nor the one after that. Indeed, for a week he sees her only in large gatherings of other mages. He understands her new fear of walking the Tower alone.

One quiet, lonely night, for a reason he cannot quite place, Cullen detours past the Apprentice Dormitory on his way down to the library watch.

It is late, and the corridors are deserted. As he walks, his footsteps ring loud against the stone. When he approaches the dorms, he is surprised to see Apprentice Amell sitting alone upon one of the benches just outside the dormitory's doors. She looks tired, small and nervous. Her sunlight has dimmed. With her knees drawn tight up against her chest and a book perched cautiously upon them, she balances carefully, but uncomfortably on the cold stone of the bench.

Neither bothers to pretend not to stare as Cullen approaches. Nor does either speak when Cullen comes to stop just before the girl. For a few long minutes, Cullen waits, unsure of what he is meant to do. Eventually, the girl's eyes dart from Cullen, to down the long corridor in the direction of the library, and then back again.

Ah. Cullen thinks he understands. He clears his throat before continuing his journey to the library. Every now and then, he glances over his shoulder to watch the girl. She follows him quietly about twenty pace behind, feigning an awkward casualness. When he arrives the library, he turns back to watch her. They stare at each other once more, silent and waiting. Finally, Cullen backs into the little alcove where he often spends his watch. With a relieved sigh, she gathers a couple books and then settles into her spot near the grand fireplace. For the next hour she pretends to read.

When his legs begin to tingle and prickle with sleep, Cullen glances about the room to making sure they are alone. "I'm going once around the library," he says in a soft voice. "I won't be far. I'll be back soon."

She too looks cautiously about the room. Biting at her lower lip, she gives a slight nod, and gathers her knees up to rest against her chest.

As he walks, Cullen watches her from the shadows through the great stacks. With one hand wrapped about her knees, she practices wards one-handed until her returns. She jumps at every echo.

At his return, she sighs and begins to read again.

A few more hours pass. When the Second Bell tolls, Cullen steps out of his alcove one last time. The girl scrambles to collect a few books and then stands, ready to depart. It feels right as Cullen walks back past the dormitories.

The next night, as Cullen detours past the Apprentice Dormitories once again, she flashes him the slightest smile. When they reach the library, she again sits quietly by the fire; that smile again ghosting upon her lips.

It comes as rather a shock to him when it begins to snow a few hours later. Cullen sighs. He had thought they were beyond these games. He is halfway through casting a dispelling ward when he realizes he isn't cold. The snow may be piling up to his ankles, but he does not feel its chill. He carefully reaches down and gathers a handful of the snow. It's cool the touch, but not nearly so cold as it should be. It doesn't melt - just remains soft and white in his palm.

Cullen glances at the girl; she blushes and looks away.

As he straightens, Cullen takes in the full sight around him. It's breathtaking. The firelight gleams off the ice, twinkling like a vast sea of stars. Large, gentle flake float and quiver in the air. It is, without question, the most beautiful scene Cullen has ever seen. And its magic. Beautiful magic.

* * *

><p>In the weeks that follow, Apprentice Amell seems to regain some of her past confidence. After a month or so, she even begins to leave the dormitories unescorted, meeting Cullen in the library on her own. He supposes that matters have rather returned to normal - except everything has changed now. Where once his night watches were fraught with little torments, now they are filled with the most magnificent displays of magic.<p>

Some nights flowers sprout in perfect rows. Other nights birds sing for him.

They all shine with flawed perfection; nothing in Nature is so ordered nor flawless. It is clear they are conjured by someone who has never seen daylight. The blossoms are too large and bright. The songs are too melodic, too perfect.

But who is Cullen to correct perfection?

Of course, they are either temporary or illusion. The flowers fade to dust when she leaves. The birds are nothing but shadow.

She shows him the beauty in magic. The Templars and Chantry sisters have told Cullen a thousand tales of the evils and madness in magic, but _her_ magic is always good and beautiful - it could never be anything else to him.

Some nights, she reads aloud, her voice quiet, soft and pure. She is never choosey in her topics - sometimes she reads texts of history, geography or botany. Other nights she lectures from a spell tome, demonstrating the spells as she goes. On rare occasion, she manages to scrounge up a novel - typically a heroic epic from some long dead poet. Once, she even finds a cheap romance; they both blush madly as she reads it.

Tonight, because he is young and foolish, and because he knows that no one else will pass by this corner for a few hours, he dares to sit next to the girl. She is surprised for a moment, but then smiles with a warmth that cracks Cullen's stony shell.

He sheds the cold iron of his gauntlets and warms his hands by the fire. As the heat seeps into his tired skin, she begins to read aloud from her book - some dry tome on Dalish halla herds. In the warmth of the fire's light, and to the soft whispers of her voice, Cullen let's his heavy eyes close. _Just for a moment_, he tells himself. Just for a moment, he can have this - he can savour this.

He dreams of running through green fields, the girl's hand in his. He dreams of halla and sunshine.

When he blinks his eyes back open, Cullen realizes she has stopped reading. He turns to see her staring hard at him, examining every inch of his face, until her gaze travels back to meet his own. Maker, she's biting at her lip again. The golden glow of the fire flicks across her skin ; her grey eyes shine back at him. The book slides forgotten from her lap as she leans in closer to him.

Cullen's breath catches in his throat. He should stop this. He shouldn't have fallen asleep - should never have even sat down. But she's so close now. He can feel the heat of her over the fire.

"Cullen," she whispers, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. Has she ever even said his name before?

Damn the consequences. Damn the Order. He's bewitched and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He leans towards her, eyes closed, heart open. Her breath brushes softly against his lips. He inhales the sweet sunshine she radiates. Just a hair more and he'll feel those pink lips against his own. He pauses, waiting for her to meet him. Waiting. Waiting.

Instead, her hands jump to his shoulders and push him away.

And then she is gone.

Cullen looks up in time to see the hem of her robes skittering behind her as she runs for the stairs.

* * *

><p>Never again does Squire Cullen find Solona Amell haunting the midnight shadows of the Tower library.<p>

Her change in habit garners the brief attention of the other squires. In passing, Cullen hears of how the Apprentice Amell now gathers her books in the early evening and then vanishes to a assortment of hidden corners.

Yet she has not vanished from Cullen's life. He sees her now and then, drifting through the stone corridors. She does not look him. Those petal-pink lips do not smile to see him; she ignores him as she does any other templar.

Without her, the library is dark, lonely, suffocating. But he endures it, a stone watchmen in the shadows.

She has deserted him, leaving nothing but the scent of sunshine and longing in her wake.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: _This is another prequel/companion piece to my other DA story, _The Maker's Gifts_. For another one-shot on Solona Amell's life in the Tower, check out _Rain_ (Jowan's POV)._

_This story was started just after Awakenings was released (I know, I'm the worst at publishing), and so this is not Inquisition compliant. I'm still playing through DA:I, but between it and DA2, I feel like so much of Cullen's story has just been swept under the rug. If you're a mage in DA:O, Cullen can do some bad, bad things. And then they just get retconned away as "rumours" in the later games... it's a bit disappointing. _

_Thanks for reading!_


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